


Perhaps

by sourwolphs



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bruises, Canonical Child Abuse, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:33:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5136569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sourwolphs/pseuds/sourwolphs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At that, a fresh burst of pain spread like red-hot light in front of his eyelids. The memory of his father’s fist, the metal railing, the screech of the BMW’s tires—it flooded his vision like a tidal wave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perhaps

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little canon divergence after Ronan beat Robert Parrish to the ground. **Or, how I wish Pynch had begun.**
> 
>  
> 
> _These characters belong to Maggie Stiefvater._
> 
>  
> 
> Catch me on tumblr at [cabeswter](http://www.cabeswter.tumblr.com).

Blood pounded through Adam’s head, an insistent rhythm that thundered behind his eyelids. There was a dull throbbing on the left side of his head accompanied by an obtrusive rushing noise, like when you press a seashell to your ear and hear the ocean. In the background, far outside his raw skull, he could hear the soft exchange of words; feel the brush of an ice-cold hand along his clammy forehead, and an unyielding warmth along his back.

“Has he woken at all?” That must have been Noah, faint. Another cool brush of his hands, this time along the hair curled up with sweat at the nape of his neck. A deep, grunting reply followed—from behind him. That was Ronan’s warmth, then. At that, a fresh burst of pain spread like red-hot light in front of his eyelids. The memory of his father’s fist, the metal railing, the screech of the BMW’s tires—it flooded his vision like a tidal wave.

He blinked his eyes open to face a peeling poster for an EDM concert—all bubble artist titles and neon colors. Ronan’s room. He could feel the taut pull of cottony bandages along the side of his face that was not pressed deeply into a warm pillow.

Noah’s white blonde hair fell into his line of vision as the barely corporeal boy leaned over Ronan’s lap to peek at Adam’s face. He opened his mouth, like he was hoping the right words would fill the gap in his mouth, then hastily shut it at the blank look in Adam’s eyes. He pulled back, settled one hand on his arm in a comforting squeeze, then moved off the bed completely. “He’s up,” he murmured.

Ronan didn’t move from where the side of his body tucked along Adam’s back. He was leaned up against the headboard, hands in his lap, thoroughly unfazed by their closeness. Adam was quite the opposite. He could feel every movement of his hands in his lap; probably fumbling with the hem of whatever shirt he was wearing.

His body felt like a live wire, alight with every intermittent press of their bodies through cloth. A myriad of emotions loaded inside of him like bullets in a firearm, into the greasy, powdery metal of the yoke. _Anger_ —hot, throbbing, anger. _Shame_ , dark and relentless. _Guilt_ —stifling, encumbering.

After a long stretch of silence, Ronan turned as if to lean over.

The gun cocked, finger on the trigger. Ready to fire. “I’m not gonna thank you.” Ronan paused. Adam knew he was inhaling quietly—in through his mouth, out his nose.He couldn’t help the hot pulse of shame, guilt, anger, _whatever_ in his chest—because Ronan had ruined _everything_. Adam had never asked for this. He didn’t want to _owe_ him.

When he didn’t reply, Adam began again: “If you’re waiting for a thank you, you’re wasting your time.”

Ronan swallowed audibly, turning back away. Slow. Controlled. Adam’s anger dissolved in the silence, transforming into an overwhelming sorrow. _He’d_ ruined everything. Not Ronan. _Never Ronan._

How many times had he narrowed his eyes at Adam’s splotchy concealer under the hazy light at Nino’s? How many times had he grit his teeth, dug his fingers into the Formica countertop, slammed the car door, refused to drive Adam home? How many times had he offered to end it all?

Adam shut his eyes tightly at the first chest-wracking sob that angered the deep bruises in his ribs. Hot tears pulsed behind his eyelids, gathering like moths to a flame. Ronan was motionless behind him, hand hovering just above his arm—unsure, hesitant. For once in his life, tempering the impulse to action.

Adam fought to hold back each shudder, gritted his teeth to the insistent tremors, but holding back _ached_ —his ribs crying out in protest with each tightened breath, and he surrendered to grief in it’s rawest form—a luxury he rarely afforded himself. Tears poured down his cheeks in rivulets, dampening the pillowcase, his eyelashes sticking to his skin as they contracted.

Like a dam breaking under the brunt of a flood, Ronan moved to action, pulling him close, gathering him tenderly into the curve of his chest. He avoided every bruised bone, every path of purpled skin, as his arms burrowed around him. He pressed his face into the nape of Adam’s neck, his breath ghosting over his skin and into the soft waves of his hair.

Adam tensed at the splayed hand on his chest, the gentle sweep of Ronan’s thumb across his sternum. The same hands that had bruised and bloodied Robert Parrish rested now, just over Adam Parrish’s heart—pumping blood out of sheer force of will.  

It was improbable, really, that Ronan held him unceasingly. Until his body stopped spasming with tears, until his throat tightened up and closed, until his breathing came simply, fluidly once again. Until the sun dipped behind the Henrietta mountains, and stars began to pinprick the graying sky.

It was improbable, really. Until he turned. Slowly, achingly, wincing as his ribs absorbed the impact of his momentum. Until they faced each other, in the dim light of the deepening sky through the window. Ronan’s eyes were wide, hazy with unreadable emotion. Fear, maybe. Want.

Perhaps it was the darkness, settling over them like a blanket, or the trauma still stinging in his head like a blister, or the hopelessness blossoming like the fruit of his future—or a combination of all these things, that drove Adam to run a gentle thumbprint along the harsh cut of Ronan’s cheekbone. The boy sucked in a harsh breath, drawing his plush bottom lip between his teeth.

Perhaps it was the immediacy of the moment. Perhaps it was the memory of Ronan’s hand, splayed across his chest like an impenetrable shield, the ghost of his sweet breath over the bridge of Adam’s nose. Perhaps it was gratitude.

Or perhaps it was something else—a word Adam didn’t dare utter, for fear of the irrevocability of it. He leaned in slowly, their lips a breadth away from each other, and captured Ronan Lynch as his own.


End file.
